


If You Wish for Peace

by asuralucier



Series: Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum [1]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, They meet as teenagers AU, Violence, X-Men: First Class (2011), character death (not Charles or Erik), pre film, pre slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 04:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15941459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: With his father, a volunteer physician stationed in Poland, young Charles helps dying soldiers find peace on their deathbeds and dreams of a better world. After Erik Lehnsherr nearly kills him, Charles has to come to terms with the fact that a better world might not exist unless he creates it.





	If You Wish for Peace

**Author's Note:**

> The last of my reposts from 2011. First written for xmen_firstkink

Luke Wardell was a kid soldier from the Yorkshire Moors, and he’d wanted to be a hero. He'd enlisted three days past his nineteenth birthday in a burst of misplaced courage. If he became a hero, his sweetheart Elizabeth would love him more than any other man on this entire world. She was wealthy, from old money, and he hadn’t any prospects. But he loved her. He'd loved her all his life and that was enough.   
  
Luke had had three fingers on one hand and his right foot amputated. He was delirious. He was a dying man.   
  
Charles Xavier, scarcely younger than Luke Wardell, held his hand, the one that still had five fingers; Luke smiled at him; he had wonky teeth that gave him character, “Lizzie? Lizzie, how did you know I was here?”   
  
“Because I love you,” Charles said. “And I know.”   
  
Luke said, “I didn’t want you to see me like this. I wanted to be...I was supposed to return a hero.”   
  
“You are a hero. You're so brave, protecting all your comrades and your country. I will always remember you like that.”   
  
“Lizzie, do you think we could have been happy together?” Luke’s eyes were dimming.   
  
Charles nearly choked, “Yes, very happy.”   
  
Then Luke Wardell was still and very dead. Charles pried the man’s fingers off of him, and then he went to fetch a nurse.   
  
  
  
Brian Xavier was a man who believed in peace, but not through war. Charles wanted to be just like him. He thought it was eternally stupid that his father wanted to die here, but he was a grown man, and Charles still had the utmost respect for him.   
  
“If you stay here, you will die,” said his father. He broke the hard bread in two and gave Charles the larger portion. “You have a gift.”   
  
Charles nibbled idly at the bread, he wasn’t hungry. “You’ll die too,” he pointed out bluntly. “If I didn’t have a gift, you wouldn’t try so hard to send me away.”   
  
He’d long since promised himself that he would never read his father’s mind. There were things in there that he knew he’d never want to see. Even without reading his mind, Charles knew he was right.   
  
But Brian said, “A father should never have to bury his son, Charles. Please go to England, look after your mother.”   
  
Charles could go to England and be selfish. Or he could stay here, and be dying soldiers’ mothers, fathers, lovers.   
  
“I can’t,” he put the remainder of his bread on his father’s plate, “I’m sorry, I can’t.”   
  
  
  
Lt. Henry O’Shea was the illegitimate son of a prostitute and a gentleman. His mother died when he was six-years-old, having fallen very ill; it was one of those diseases which wasted her away. Henry never got the chance to say goodbye, and it was something he’d never forgiven himself for.   
  
“-- Mam?”   
  
Charles smiled, “You’ve grown into a fine young man, Harry.”   
  
“Mam,” Henry was barely lucid.   
  
Charles touched Henry’s cheek, there was a scar about three inches long slashed across his skin. He’d been nearly killed three times before this time, “You’ve done well. Mam is proud of you.”   
  
The corners of Henry’s eyes were wet, and then he smiled.   
  
Charles looked away but Harry's grip on his mother's hand seemed to grow tighter; he didn't want to go, “We will be together soon, Harry. Be brave.”   
  
  
  
There was a girl against the wall, and she looked dead. The girl looked to be a little older than him, but not by much. Her hair was wet and matted against her forehead; she had no shoes. Charles was not a physician, but he could tell that she was freshly dead. In a few hours, she would start to smell.   
  
He reached for her hand. It was cold and limp.   
  
Charles heard something move behind him. He wasn’t quite sure how it got there, but there was a sharp blade resting perilously close to his neck.  
  
“Don’t you dare touch her,” growled a voice behind him. The voice grated Charles’ ears because it was so young.   
  
_I was supposed to protect her! I couldn’t! I was weak and I was stupid and Magda --_    
  
Charles held up both of his hands, “Magda was very sick. Even if you could have prevented her from getting killed, she would have died anyway.”   
  
The knife pressed harder against his skin, “How do you know?”   
  
He swallowed, “My father’s a doctor.”   
  
“How did you know,” the voice repeated, “that her name is Magda?” The knife was shaking like the voice. It sounded younger and younger.   
  
“Because I am like you,” Charles said. “Please put the knife down, Erik. I mean her no harm.”   
  
The knife dropped with a loud  _clang_. Charles turned around. Erik Lehnsherr was Polish and he’d seen his mother die, he’d seen many people die. And none of the deaths were peaceful. Erik looked only slightly older than him and he had a bad limp in his left foot.   
  
“What’s your name?”   
  
“Charles Xavier,” Charles would have offered his hand, but a handshake seemed out of place. “How long have you had that limp?”   
  
_Four days, five days, I don’t remember._    
  
“Four days is a very long time, would you like me to look at it? Maybe I can help you.”   
  
“Stop doing that,” Erik snapped.   
  
_Get out of my head. You don’t want to see anything that I have seen._  
  
“I’m sorry,” said Charles. “I won’t do it anymore. But your leg might get worse. Were you shot?”   
  
Erik shrugged, “I removed the bullet, it hardly hurts.” But his teeth were clenched together as he spoke. Of course it hurt. “I’m not leaving Magda.”   
  
“Are you going to stay with her until you’re killed too, then?” His voice was too sharp. Charles was immediately sorry. The knife near his foot twitched.   
  
Erik was silent.   
  
“Let me look at your leg,” Charles pleaded with him. “There is a hospital nearby, if we sneak her onto one of the beds, they’ll bury her properly. She won’t have to rot in a sewer.”   
  
“If you lie to me, I will kill you,” said Erik. Charles knew he meant it, too. He waited until the other boy had picked up Magda.   
  
“Follow me.”   
  
  
  
Charles spotted an empty bed by the window. He wasted no time walking quickly to it, gesturing for the other boy to follow him. The beds never stayed empty for long. The entire city was dying.  
  
“Tell her goodbye, Erik. You must.”   
  
Erik put her down on the bed and brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. He did a strange gesture that Charles didn’t recognize, but found beautiful nonetheless.   
  
“Come on, this way.”   
  
It was easy to get supplies because they all knew him. Brian Xavier’s son was going to become a great man someday. He knew so much. He took an almost empty roll of white clean linen and hid it under his coat.   
  
Erik followed him home. He stood in silence as Charles heated up a pot of hot water and dipped a towel in it. Then he sat, and rolled up his pant leg. The wound made Charles slightly sick, but he didn’t look away.   
  
“This is going to hurt.”   
  
The pot dented. Only slightly.  
  
“...Why are you helping me?”   
  
“Because,” Charles went to turn off the stove. There was still some hard bread left. He broke off a generous piece and handed it to Erik. “I help everyone. It brings them peace.”   
  
“We’re in a time of war,” said Erik. “If you keep thinking about peace, there will never be peace. You must think about war, Charles. Don’t be stupid. I bet you’ve never killed anyone.”   
  
Charles winced, “That’s not what my father says, and of course I haven’t killed anyone.”   
  
“Your father is an idiot,” said Erik as he ripped off a large bite of the bread.   
  
  
  
Charles allowed himself a peek into his father’s mind that night. Brian Xavier was proud of him for being so selfless. His son was going to grow up and do great things. If they ever made it out of here alive, Brian thought his son was going to go to Oxford, perhaps become a great professor, or a great physician. Whatever he chose to become, he was going to be brilliant. Brian hadn't any doubt.  
  
Erik was bitter like an old man, all of his memories were bitter, but Charles thought his mother was a beautiful woman.   
  
  
  
“Where did you get this?” Charles turned over the few coins that Erik had dropped in his open palm.  
  
“I’d rather you not ask.”   
  
Charles closed his eyes and saw four men in a ditch. Then he opened his eyes again, “You killed them.”   
  
“They hurt me first.”   
  
“You could have left them alive,” said Charles. “You didn’t have to  _murder_  them.”  
  
Erik didn’t even blink, “If I didn’t kill them, they’d hurt others like me. They’d hurt you. Would you want that?”   
  
Charles said nothing.   
  
  
  
His father looked very tired; Charles wished he’d remembered to sneak extra bread. “Erik is going to be home with you?”   
  
“Yes, Father.”   
  
“Then the two of you are going to be all right. I’m not coming home tonight. There is too much to do here. I will see you here in the morning. Lock the doors. Be safe.”   
  
“All right.”   
  
Erik came home late at night. Charles tried not to think about him. He was afraid of what he might see. He never knew what the boy went around doing during the day.   
  
“Where’s your father?”   
  
“At the hospital.”   
  
There was thin soup, Erik helped himself to half a bowl, “Has he got anything to eat?”   
  
“They will always feed physicians at the hospital.”   
  
Erik nodded, “I suppose you are right. Both of you are still stupid.”   
  
They’d already had this discussion lots of times. Charles didn’t return the jab because he was tired of losing. After the war, everything would go back to the way it was. Erik did not have to kill people. “After the war --” he began.   
  
Erik didn’t even let him finish, “After the war, there will be another one. And after that war, another one,” Erik put down his bowl. “Where does it end, Charles? Your mind is a brilliant thing, but what will people do when they find out about you? They will lock you up, like they locked me up and they will make you do horrible things.”   
  
“That’s not --”   
  
Charles saw a woman getting shot. A metallic table ripping from the floor and hurtling towards a solid sheet of glass.   
  
The glass shattered, there was blood. There was so much blood.   
  
Charles was shaking, but there were suddenly arms around him. Erik’s voice was surprisingly gentle, “I told you. Don’t read my mind.”   
  
Charles might have sobbed into his shoulder, but Erik had enough sense to stay quiet.   
  
  
  
_“Charles! Charles! **Help** me!”  
  
The picture floating in his mind was unclear and foggy, but the pain was real._  
  
It was the pain the woke him. Charles inhaled deeply. That had been his father’s face. No, it couldn’t be. He was supposed to be at the hospital.   
  
“Charles?” Erik touched his arm and he flinched. The pain lingered.   
  
“Erik, my father -- men have --” Charles was babbling. He took another deep breath.   
  
_Men have my father, Erik. I saw them._    
  
Erik squeezed his hand, “Do you know where they are?”   
  
Charles closed his eyes. “ -- Yes, I think so.” A dark street, but then all the streets were dark. Smashed windows and, and something. A gutter? Men were yelling. “I mean, I know approximately.”   
  
“Approximately is good enough,” said Erik and took his hand. “Come on. Hurry.”   
  
  
  
The two of them ran. They ran, and they ran. Rather, Erik ran and gripped Charles’ arm in a tight grip to make sure he kept up. Charles couldn’t feel his legs.   
  
They tripped. The ground was dry, but they’d tripped over something wet. It was a body soaked in blood.   
  
Erik got up first, “Look away.”   
  
Charles said, “It’s not him. It can’t be him. I didn’t see him here.” But the fear settled in his heart and stayed there. “Erik, it’s not. It’s not, it’s not.”   
  
“Charles.”   
  
It was his father’s old coat, his father’s shoes, the watch that he always wore -- the one that looked expensive but really wasn’t -- was gone from his wrist. Charles’ knees gave, and he sank down to the ground.   
  
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. All he wanted to do was scream.   
  
Erik said, “He was carrying food, for you.” Several feet away, was a bag with holes in it. “That’s probably why they killed him.”   
  
_Charles, there is going to be peace._  It all seemed very stupid and far away.   
  
Very slowly, he got to his feet, “The men who killed my father went that way. They’re still nearby.”  
  
_I want you to kill them_.   
  
Erik took his hand, “I will.”   
  
  
  
There were five men in total huddled together like greedy rats. They looked to be homeless soldiers who’d deserted. Poverty wasn’t something that knew distinctions. They all had old, rusted guns. That was the only thing that was more valuable than bread.   
  
The men laughed at Charles and Erik, they were only boys. What did they know? They’d better run on home before they got hurt.   
  
“We are here to kill you,” Erik said.   
  
They laughed harder. It'd been a while since they'd all heard something so ridiculous. They enjoyed a good joke.   
  
“Go home, boys,” said one of them with his mouth full.   
  
Lightning quick, Erik twisted the gun out of his grasp and there were two shots. One to the man’s temple, one to the man’s stomach. The gun hung suspended in midair, and everyone was silent.   
  
One of the dead man’s companions shot wildly at them. The bullet seemed to slow, he’d aimed for Charles’ head, but at the very last second, the bullet richocheted off the nearest wall and ripped through the shooter’s skull.   
  
The three remaining men tried to run. Erik shot two of them and one man let out a deafening yell for only a second.   
  
_Forgive me --_    
  
Erik picked up one of the bloodied bullets that had already been used, and pierced his throat with it.   
  
There was silence again  
  
The last man cowered; he reeked of fear. He babbled something German that made Erik smirk in a way that made Charles’ skin crawl. The man’s thoughts hurt, and he didn’t want to think them.   
  
Charles watched as Erik fired one shot. The bullet tore through his knee and left specks of flesh splattered on the pavement. The man howled as he fell to the ground.   
  
Erik lowered the gun.   
  
“You’re not going to kill him?”   
  
Charles felt cool metal press into his hands. Erik was giving him the gun; it was not Charles’ first time holding a gun, but it was heavier than he remembered. “You can kill him, Charles. Just pull the trigger.”

"I don't think I can." 

Erik raised his arm, “Just pull the trigger,” he said again. “I will be here with you. We must do this for peace. Our children can be children. You have to find the courage.”   
  
Charles thought of his father, who was dead on a rotten street somewhere. He couldn’t even remember which street. Brian Xavier wished for peace, but he’d been foolish and stupid. He could have lived. Now his son was going to live, _really live_ , in his stead.   
  
Charles shut his eyes. Erik’s arm tightened around his shoulder.   
  
He thought to the man on the ground, “ _Be at peace_.” The man stopped writhing and stayed eerily still. As if he saw the way Charles and Erik saw the future, and he suddenly understood everything. That their world was going to be somewhere where children could be children, and peaceful. That there was simply no place for him. He was scum. He was going to die.  
  
Then Charles pulled the trigger. 


End file.
